


Twenty Years (Is Nothing)

by Nia_dAstarte



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Academy Awards 2019, Awards, Feelings, Fluff, Freeform, Friendship, Gen, Love, M/M, Musing, Oscars 2019, Red Carpet, The Past, Their King - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-11-04 20:55:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17905478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nia_dAstarte/pseuds/Nia_dAstarte
Summary: Their King may be getting an Oscar. One way or another, they are all there.It is the year 2019, and the cast and crew of theThe Lord of the Ringscannot wait for their King to finally win Best Actor in a Leading Role. On the red carpet in Los Angeles, at home in Scotland glued to the screen, or at the public viewing in Stone Street, Wellington, they are all rooting for him.





	1. You're Late

**Author's Note:**

> It is the Oscar's tonight, ladies and gentlemen! It will be the first time I will be watching them live since _The Return of the King_. I will be adding another chapter or two to this as I watch.

Their King may be getting an Oscar. One way or another, they are all there.

Orlando realises that it might seem strange to think of him that way, twenty years on. He does not tell very many people that he still does, or hasn’t, anyway, not until very recently. He was embarrassed about it at first, about still thinking of Viggo as his King. During shooting, it was normal, useful even. It is how they all felt, and it helped the film, and made Peter edit that frightfully accurate video of Orlando’s Legolas eyeing up Aragorn throughout three movies, setting it to “Hungry Eyes.”  
But once it was all over – the shooting, the pick-ups, the premieres, the awards –, once they had all moved on to different projects, different countries, different lives, Orlando had expected it to go away. He had expected it to fade to a pleasant memory, the way he would recollect drama school, as a part of himself and his life, certainly, but as a thing of the past.

That was not what happened. 

Five years went by, and still, whenever Orlando saw Elijah walk into a crowded bar in LA, his heart jumped. When he met Dominic and Billy for a football match back home in the UK, when they pulled him into their arms both at the same time, his eyes watered even as his lips shaped into the brightest grin. When he saw PJ, rushing through an airport, or Fran in a photo, warmth would spread through him, filling him whole.

And whenever he saw Viggo, on a screen or in a brochure or in his cabin in Canada, there would be a tear at his heartstrings and a rush of joy. 

At first, he did not speak to anyone about it. He didn’t know who would understand except those who had been there with him, and with them, he was mortally scared that he was the only one to feel this way. That it was only him who felt, whenever he saw any of them, Karl and Ian and Sean, like he was going to cry, or laugh, or both, really.

And suddenly it was ten years later and he saw Viggo in a film that had just come out, sitting late at night on his couch, and he burst into tears.

Fortunately, Orland was drunk at the time, so he phoned Dom. Fortunately, Dominic didn’t pick up, so Orlando tried Billy. Billy did, and Billy’s a grown-up, so they talked. And Billy said, 

_Me, too, Orli._

And they kept talking, and Orlando had to do all he could not to burst into tears again. He was so happy that it wasn’t only him. That it wasn’t only him who could not let them go. Who would never be able to let them go.

So now he is here. Exactly twenty years after they flew down to New Zealand, he is standing on the red carpet outside the Dolby Theatre in Los Angeles, looking for one man and one man only. Unsurprisingly, Viggo’s late. He knows they are all here, one way or another. Billy is watching with Dom from the UK, it is two in the goddamn morning over there, and they’re huddled together on Dom’s couch, drinking proper beer and eating proper snacks and sending silly selfies all the time. Peter and Elijah are here, by his side, laughing, while Ian has apparently gotten together with Beanie and Bernhard, Bernhard Hill, to watch the ceremony at Elton John’s Oscar bash in London. Liv and Sean Astin should be around somewhere as well, they will go and find them later. Fran and Philippa are in Wellington at Stonestreet, where they have assembled as much of the crew and cast from down there as they could. It’s a public viewing. As far as Pete can tell, Richard Taylor’s already drunk, and sword fighting with Miranda. Alan Lee and John Howe even flew down.

Twenty years on, and they are all there for him.

Someone nudges his side. “Ready to go inside, Orlando?” Peter says. He is watching him carefully, as he used to watch all his actors, and every piece of set, and every line he’d written with Fran and Philippa. Lij is standing behind him, smiling mischievously. “If you think your fans can spare you.”  
Orlando flips him the finger. Then he grins at the flashing cameras before they go in.


	2. You Look Terrible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I don’t need it,” is the first thing Viggo says. “I don’t care about it.”_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _“I know you don’t,” Orlando says. They are still standing forehead to forehead, the way Viggo and the stunties started saying hello and goodbye. Maybe Orlando is drawing it out a little longer than necessary. It’s all right. Because he is pretty sure that Viggo is, too._

“I don’t need it,” is the first thing Viggo says. “I don’t care about it.”

“I know you don’t,” Orlando says. They are still standing forehead to forehead, the way Viggo and the stunties started saying hello and goodbye. Maybe Orlando is drawing it out a little longer than necessary. It’s all right. Because he is pretty sure that Viggo is, too.

When they separate, Viggo pulls Lij into a hug, the only one of them who hasn’t aged a day. You do not realise, when you see yourself in the mirror each day, how much you change over the years. Even Ian, who already seemed old to Orlando back when they were shooting Rings, has grown visibly older. Only Elijah looks as if not a single day has passed, of course he bloody does. Viggo and Elijah embrace, as unconscious as if they weren’t in America, surrounded by so many cameras at an Oscar party. They stay in that embrace for a long time, and Orlando realises that he does not look away, not even once. Seeing them hug feels just as good as hugging Viggo himself, and how is that? 

“You proposed, I heard?” Viggo asks Orlando once they’ve separated.

“I did,” Orlando says.

“I loved the personal touch.”

Orlando furrows his brow. Lij looks very much like he is trying not to burst out laughing. “No,” Viggo goes on, seemingly unperturbed, but there is that mischievous grin on his face, “I really quite like it. A proposal on a helicopter. I mean, that isn’t the least bit generic.”

“Generic?” Orlando splutters, just as Lij can hold himself back no longer. Orlando punches Viggo in the arm. Viggo retaliates by headbutting him. That hurts a lot worse. They stay like this for a moment. Viggo does not close his eyes. He never does. Neither does Orlando: “I will have you know, I am excellent at proposals.”

“Yeah?” Viggo’s expression changes. It turns feral. His crooked grin. “What would it have been, then?”

Orlando takes a deep breath. “Horses.”

Viggo’s grin turns into a smile. The gentlest smile. Emboldened, Orlando goes on: “I would have flown you down to New Zealand, and we would have taken the horses out to that bit on the South Island, where we shot Edoras. And steaks on a barbecue.”

Viggo’s hands tighten around Orlando’s face. He opens his mouth to say something.

“Viggo!” 

Viggo is whisked away. Of course he is. Orlando nurses a drink and watches him. Lij stands by his side. Peter has been whisked off, too. “You okay?” Lij says. They were the youngest of the fellowship, the two of them. They had different ways of handling it. In hindsight, perhaps Orlando would have preferred Elijah’s.

“So many doors opened for me after Rings,” Orlando says, trying to explain what he’s feeling. “Looking at you, at Viggo, at Peter, looking at this film Viggo made, I cannot help thinking I picked all the wrong ones.”

His voice breaks on the last couple of words. Lij reaches for his hand. Presses it. “There’s so many more doors.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Orlando says, because if there is anything he has learned over the past twenty years, it is to tell the truth when you can, even if it means making yourself vulnerable.

“You too,” Lij says, and they stand shoulder to shoulder, right in each other’s space, and talk quietly. 

It is an hour later that Orlando finds himself back with Viggo, on the staircase leading up to the men’s room. They’re sitting on the steps, Viggo on the one above. His knee is bumping into his Orlando’s head. Orlando doesn’t mind. “You would have deserved it,” Orlando says. He doesn’t care that someone glares at him as they walk past, probably someone who is a big fan of Rami Malek. “You deserve it all.”

Without saying a word, Viggo puts his hand onto Orlando’s head, starts scratching his scalp. His fingers are gentle. Orlando slides back against him. Slides inbetween his legs. Viggo pulls him towards him. This is comfortable. This is familiar, even after so many years. “They weren’t going to give it to a sixty-year old ugly fuck who makes racist jokes. Didn’t you hear what Olivia said just now: ‘They can only ever award one fat cow at a time.’”

Orlando makes a noise of indignation. On behalf of Olivia, whose performance brought him to tears. And on behalf of Viggo. “You were not ugly!”

He can feel Viggo smile against the back of his head. He can smell him, still the exact same smell. “Touching, man.”

Orlando closes his eyes. He breathes in, breathes out. Tell the truth when you can. “The prison scene,” he says. “You are fucking beautiful in that one.”

Viggo stills for a moment. Then he puts his hand on Orlando’s. Intertwines their fingers as if it was nothing.

And it is nothing. It is so familiar. A kiss to the cheek, the stubble scratching across his chin. “You have not lost your touch,” Viggo whispers, back to grinning, so quick to grin. “Three words, and I am wondering if you will come back to the hotel with me.”

“I don’t know,” Orlando says airily. “I may have more important things to do, who knows.”

Viggo laughs. He pulls Orlando towards him. They wrestle on the staircase. Orlando ends up on top. He watches Viggo laugh, his head thrown back, his eyes wild with mischief, his enunciation as poor as ever.

Nothing’s changed. There are tears in Orlando’s eyes suddenly. He will love this man for the rest of his life. He will love him when Viggo is right below him, or on the other side of an ocean; on the screen as a racist Italo-American or spread out on top of his bedsheets in his cabin in Canada. He will love him when Viggo is already dead and Orlando has nothing but his gravestone to talk to.

It makes it difficult to breathe, thinking of that day. He has seen Viggo’s funeral, he was there when they shot the funeral of the King of Gondor. He cried then. Orlando wants to cry now. Viggo makes time precious. And they only have so little of it.

Viggo sees the change that comes over him, of course he does. He pulls Orlando in. Puts his hand on the back of his head and sings softly. “Shhh,” he says. “Shhh.”

And then, like it’s nothing: “I love you.”

Or, not like it’s nothing. Matter-of-fact. Unchanging. Unfading. “I love you, too,” Orlando says. And then: “I’m really fucking lucky, you know that?”

“Hmhm,” Viggo says, nosing along his neck, along the back of his ear.

That spot that stills gets Orlando. Every fucking time time. “You come find me when you’re ready to go?” Orlando asks.

“I’m ready,” Viggo replies.

They rise. They each make their separate goodbyes. Only Lij and Peter, they keep till last, and they go to together. Peter is on the phone with the guys at Stonestreet. Voices are roaring out over the speaker, they laugh and cry and say goodbye. As they leave, Orlando’s phone pings. It’s a message from Billy. 

_Me, too._

One way or another, they are all there.

Once they are in the car, Orlando intertwines his hands with Viggo’s. He traces his King’s wrinkles, his the veins on the back of his hand. 

“Who,” Viggo asks in his usual charming way, “gives a fuck about an Academy Award when they can have this?”

It could be a cheap line, if Orlando did not know that Viggo meant every word of it. If he did not want to kiss him so bad, if he could not feel it tugging at his fingers and his ribs and his hips. They lean in at the same time. Viggo goes for the kiss.

Orlando goes for his pants. 

Viggo laughs. In his quiet way. “Or that,” he murmurs and buries his hand in Orlando’s hair.

Again, Orlando’s phone pings. Viggo raises his brows, the sarcasm gentle as can be. “No please, I am sure it is very important,” he says as Orlando fumbles it out of his pocket. 

Without comment, Orlando shows him the screen.

Another message from Billy:

_Give our King a kiss from me._

Viggo laughs. And they kiss. They kiss, and twenty years is nothing. 

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many fabulous films this year! I am crossing my fingers that _The Favourite_ wins Best Picture, but I am rooting for no one as much as I am rooting for Viggo Mortensen to win Best Performance for the incredible work he did in _Green Book_. I hope you enjoy the show, or at least the results!


End file.
